


Flash Fic and Headcanon

by TheRedMenace



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Blanket Tag for Bucky Issues, Brooklyn Boys Shenanigans, Darcy Lewis is Tony Stark's Daughter, Discussion of Mercy Killings, Drabble Collection, Everyone Needs A Hug, Father-Daughter Relationship, Ficlet Collection, Genetic Engineering, Headcanon, I Did Not Mean To Ship This But Here We Are, I Tried To Fluff But I Angsted Instead Oops, Implied Sexual Content, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Magical Misadventures, Multi, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pepper Goddamn Potts, Romantic Soulmates, Self-Fulfilling Prophecy, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Steve In The Modern Age, Team Secret Starks, The Notorious RBG, This Whole Collection Is Turning Into Ships I Did Not Mean To Ship, Tony Stark Shenanigans, Tony's Internal Monologue is a Bitch to Write, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unethical Experimentation, Unnecessary Angst and Pining, Wait Is This Fluff How Did I Manage That, What the Flying Fuck Howard, You Can Pry This Trope From My Cold Dead Hands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2018-08-21 17:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 17,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8254060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedMenace/pseuds/TheRedMenace
Summary: Because apparently I need a dumping ground for my obscene amounts of headcanons, drabbles and flash fics.





	1. The Pianist

**Author's Note:**

> If you’ve read any of my Avengers stories, you know that I’m almost always inspired, persuaded, and/or ordered to write by my dear friends Erica and Bailey. We maintain a group chat, 95% of which is just us fangirling at each other. Over the life of this chat, I’ve come up with a bunch of headcanons, drabbles and flash fics for our amusement. They encouraged me to gather them all up and post them. Hence, this story. Chapters will be erratic and posted in no particular order. Also, while many of these entries will share headcanons and background details, none of them are necessarily in a coherent universe.
> 
> Some of these fics will be cleaned up and fleshed out from their original format, but they are in essence the same, and at this time I have no plans to expand any of them into proper stories. If you want to adopt any of them, please feel free, and link me so I can read them!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This may be the one thing he's grateful to HYDRA for.

[Inspired by [The Heart Asks Pleasure First](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TCJB9mIlFBs) from the soundtrack for _The Piano_.]

The common lounge of Avengers Tower was deserted and shadowed; a rarity, but perhaps not entirely unusual considering it was 0245.  PTSD- and nightmare-plagued insomniacs the Avengers may be, but even they needed to sleep sometimes [yes, Natalia, even you].

Normally, of course, FRIDAY would have turned on the lights when someone entered the common lounge.  But the room’s sole occupant had requested they stay off in a ragged voice gone hoarse from screaming.  FRIDAY had acquiesced with a quiet murmur, activating the privacy protocols when prompted to do so.

The darkness suited him.  The lights didn’t need to be on; there was more than enough ambient light filtering in from the streets below.  More than enough light, even without his enhanced vision.  He didn’t need to see what he was doing from muscle memory.

Long, clever fingers ran over ivory keys.  Pianist’s hands, his ma used to say [doctor’s hands, his da would retort].  He always had an ear for music.  He used to play at the dance halls and bars; it had been good and easy money.  But that had been untrained, self-taught fooling around with jazz riffs and dance music; never like this.

Rolling, complex phrases, following one after another like waves on the beach.  Relentless, inexorable tides of emotion, pouring out like a limitless ocean.

 _They_ used to make the Asset play piano, in order to teach it fine motor control of the arm.  Highly advanced, technically complex pieces of the masters.  The Asset was never allowed to improvise, or to compose anything itself [Rule One: Assets have no emotion].

He still remembers how to play them.

He wonders if it’s a bad thing that he loves to play them, to close his eyes and lose himself in the gorgeous melodies.

No one who resides on the Avengers’ floors ever touches the piano; he’s not even sure why it’s there.  It’s a beautiful instrument; a Steinway baby grand, the best money can buy.  To his surprise, it is not brand-new.  There are scratches, evidence of condensation rings, a worn patina.  Worn gold letters on the fallboard spell out _MCCS_ in fine calligraphy.  Research indicates that the piano may have come from Stark Mansion; this says more about Tony Stark than he is willing to think about at fuck-dark-thirty.

In the middle of the night, when he is shaken awake by another bout of nightmares, he will sneak his way downstairs, order FRIDAY to engage maximum privacy protocols, and he will play whatever comes into his head.

Tonight, he does not want to play Rimsky-Korsakov or Rachmaninoff or Scriabin.  Tonight, in the darkness and privacy, he can close his eyes and play his own music.  Here, where no one will hear, he can unburden his heart and make his silent confession.

* * *

Hidden in the shadows on the threshold, Steve watches, heart clenching at the painful beauty of the music.  It pulls at something inside him; all those emotions he keeps so carefully unlabeled, unexamined, and ruthlessly hidden away.

God, Buck- no, not right; _James_ , now- could draw out all of his secrets with music like this.

He would step forward and reveal himself, but…  Despite the melancholy music, James’ eyes are closed in contentment.  He looks more peaceful than Steve’s seen him in this new century; he wouldn’t dare disturb that peace, not for all the tea in China.

[Of course James would look peaceful.  The music is about Steve.]


	2. Starks and Bots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starks and Bots. It's a Thing. But that does not mean that Darcy is going to take responsibility for this, coz nope. Nuh-uh. Totally not her fault.

[Inspired by a recent trip to LUSH and [this little bit of adorable](http://www.lushusa.com/bath/bath-bombs/ickle-baby-bot/03083.html).]

Darcy wants it stated for the record that she did not mean to birth a monster, and she will not be held responsible for how out of control things have gotten.

In order to understand this statement, we should roll back and give you some context.

By nature or by nurture [or, most likely, a bit of both], Darcy isn’t always the greatest at having adult, emotion-centric conversations. She’s very good at noticing when someone is having a Moment or an Issue, but she’s not always so good about saying, “Hey, I know you’re struggling right now but I’m here to help however I can. Hug? Baked goods? Non-judgmental ear? I’m your girl.”

From the knee of her father, Darcy has learned to express her concern through _stuff._ Unlike her [emotionally stunted, surprisingly awkward, very prone to go overboard] father, Darcy doesn’t shower her People in stupid expensive watches or cars or private dinners at exclusive new restaurants. But instead of using her words, she’d much prefer to shower you with the aforementioned baked goods, or knitted goods, or a distraction in the form of a deeply ridiculous adventure that literally could not happen to anyone else on the planet because Darcy’s life is just that weird.

It’s kind of become a Thing with her and her dad. They’ve never been very good at talking out their feels, whether it’s his anxiety or her nightmares or his abandonment issues or her insecurities or their PTSD. So they get each other _stuff._ Kitschy mugs, bedazzled wrenches, nail polish, obscenely obscure or profoundly weird music, atrocious stickers. Perhaps not the most emotionally healthy, but it works for them.

Case in point, the current… Situation. Which Darcy is not taking responsibility for. Nope. Nuh-uh. No way, Jose. Totally not her fault and you cannot make her admit to it [okay, Pepper could get her to cop to it just by raising an eyebrow, but c’mon. That’s Pepper, and the raised eyebrow is Pepper’s superpower. Darcy can’t be blamed for caving to that; that just makes her a rational and intelligent human being.].

Anyways. The Situation.

She’d bought Tony the Ickle Baby Bot bath bomb from LUSH as kind of a joke [where “joke” means “I’m gonna give you _stuff_ because otherwise we have to talk this shit out and… no.”].

After Tony came home from Afghanistan… well. He’d had some capital-I Issues. Not surprising, what with the torture and the captivity and the torture. He’d been jumpy and twitchy, to the point that he’d reorganized his entire workshop so his back never had to be to a door. After three months of privation and terrible food, his digestive system had been shot to hell [which absolutely did not stop him from trying to drink his Issues away; it just made for a hell of a mess for housekeeping]. And he had capital-I, italicized _Issues_ with his bathtub [and also his shower, but mostly the tub]. [He’d never say the words “water torture,” but Darcy came by her brains naturally. She could read between the lines. Or, y’know, hack into the DoD file because her little AI brother was a good wingman like that.]

Tony had clearly not wanted to talk about it, as per usual. And Darcy had been at her wit’s end worrying about her lunatic father, especially after the whole Iron Man thing started to happen. So, yeah. Maybe she’d gone and bought him a basketful of her favorite LUSH products, with the idea that the colors and the smells and the glitter would help stave off the memories of the cave. But she hadn’t actually expected him to _use_ them.

But here they were. Tony Stark had teamed up with LUSH to create a limited-edition Iron Man line of bathing products – bath bomb, shower bar, soap and solid perfume. The bath bomb had been created specifically to pair with the bot bomb. Coz, y’know. Starks and Bots. It’s a Thing. [That the proceeds were going to charities dedicated to eradicating human trafficking was a coincidence, really.]

Darcy knew what was coming the moment Pepper summoned her to her office. Even before Pepper’s lethal eyebrow had gotten halfway up, Darcy was already babbling.

“No, Mom. Nope. Nuh-uh. Nada. No matter what you try to tell me, it is totally not my fault that Dad’s constantly taking baths and cackling like a maniac when the fizzbangs go off. I don’t like cleaning gold glitter out of the bath any more than you do. Blame him, not me.”  
“Sweetie, he walked into the board meeting with glitter in his goatee. This is absolutely on you. I had him trained out of that after Y2K.”  
“Ugh. But Moooooooom…”

Up goes the eyebrow.

“Okay, okay, I’ll talk to him. Geez. Did not deserve the eyebrow. That is cruel and unusual punishment and I expected better of you.”  
“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”


	3. Heart Eyes, Motherfucker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is keeping his cool. Really. Nothing to see here; move along, move along...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I’m talking with Horrific Enabler Alpha [aka my darling Bay], we tend to overuse and abuse the Heart Eyes Motherfucker gif. And one day… this happened. I expanded it quite a bit from its original drabble form, mostly as practice to get into Sam’s headspace. While this scene didn't end up in the final story, it is intended to exist in the same universe as Once Upon a Time.

Sam kept his cool.

Really.  He did.  Don’t let anyone [i.e., Steve] tell you otherwise.  He was totally chill.  Cool as a cucumber.  Calm and collected.  Yup.

Y’know, considering that his VA work was all about acknowledging and processing emotional trauma, he was really good at suppressing and ignoring inappropriate and unneeded emotions and reactions.

He was _not_ feeling feels.  Nope.  He was in complete control of himself.  Nothing to see here; move along.

There was no need for _feelings_ while the fugitive former-Avengers were sitting in a conference room with the King of Wakanda and Okoye, the head of the Dora Milaje, discussing counter-strategies and responses to the UN’s increasingly unsubtle prodding into where Captain America and his accomplices had disappeared.

“There is no reason to fear, my friends,” T’Challa reiterated, his voice smooth and confident as he leaned back in his chair.  “The UN cannot infringe on our borders without violating multiple treaties going back decades.  They can make inquiries all they like, but they know I will view anything more aggressive as an act of war.  There is no deal they can broker that will compel me to allow extradition.  You are safe here, for as long as you choose to stay.”  
“I know that, T’Challa, and you know we’re all grateful,” Steve replied, really working the Eyebrows of Righteous Indignation.  “I just can’t help but wonder if we’re worth all this.  It’s gotta be putting you into a tough position, and it’s for the benefit of outsiders-”  
“And if so, that is my choice to make,” T’Challa interrupted him, face stern and implacable.  “If you wish to return to the States, I will of course offer my assistance, and provide legal counsel for your trials.  Otherwise, you will allow me to protect you until a more suitable deal can be brokered for your safe return.”

Well, it wasn’t like Steve could say anything to that.  [He could pout, though.]

T’Challa nodded, recognizing that he’d gotten his way.  Sam was silently impressed; it was a rare man who could argue Steve Rogers into submission.

“Now that that's settled,” the King said, relaxing as he changed subjects.  “I do have to leave you now, and take a conference call from President Déby about next month's AU meeting.  But after lunch you should come to my office, Steven.  Dr. Mgebe has the results from the latest neural scans, and she has noticed marked improvements in Bucky’s frontal lobe, which she says bodes well for the viability of the neurochemical treatments.  She wants to discuss possible next steps.”  
“Of course,” Steve nodded eagerly, perking up at the news.  
“I will see the rest of you this evening.  Shuri has brought in a troupe for a Djembe performance after supper that I think you will all enjoy,” T’Challa informed them all as he stood.  “Samuel, we are still on for going down to the market?”

Sam jerked back to attention.  Shut up, he had not zoned out while staring at T’Challa’s lips.

“Huh-?  Oh.  Yeah, of course.  Text me when you’re good, I’ll swing by and pick you up,” he nodded, shifting in his seat.

T’Challa smiled at them all and swept out the door, Okoye on his heels as always.

And Sam?  Sam was not staring as T’Challa left.  He really wasn’t.  He did not notice the absolutely _ridiculously_ graceful way the man walked and held himself.  He did not notice the cut of the man’s slacks.

He was _thinking_ , damn it, and if he was staring it was into the middle distance.  He was not staring at the King of Wakanda’s ass.

He did not jump when his phone vibrated.

Clearing his throat, he opened up the message from Steve.

 **CaptainAssmerica** :  ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  
**CawCawMotherfucker** :  Really, man?  You’re three feet away.  What the hell are you doing texting me?  
**CaptainAssmerica** : [hearteyesmotherfucker.gif](http://i1.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/newsfeed/000/947/181/c57.gif)

Sam rolled his eyes, huffing as he pushed back from the table and stuffing his phone in his pocket as he headed out to spend some time in the palace’s private library.  He was beginning to rue the day Natasha taught Steve how to work a gif.  [Bucky, the little shit, would probably be really proud when he woke up.]


	4. Your Imprint's On My Skin and In My Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soulmarks adorn their flesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AKA: The Soulmark AU nobody asked for. I read a tumblr prompt and all I could think was, "Oh no. Oh -no-." This one has been greatly expanded from the original ideas I kicked around with Bay and Erica. 200-word drabbles, because I find that a particularly challenging way to write.

 

[Based on [this tumblr prompt](http://thehangedqueen.tumblr.com/post/149151421934/pxstergirl-soulmate-au-where-when-you-write):    _Soulmate AU where when you write something on your skin with pen/marker/whatever the hell you want, it will show up on your soulmate’s skin as well._ ]

* * *

Thor stares at the indecipherable squiggles that appear on his arms at all hours. 

At first all he can think is, _not again_.

The _sjel merke_ he shares with Sif – a graceful abstraction that shimmers with all the colors of Yggdrasil – twines around his left thigh, constant and reassuring, as it has done all his life.  They were wed once, for political reasons, and have a daughter.  But in the end, they agreed they were better suited as the closest of boon companions.

These handwritten notes on his skin, he knows, indicate a soulmate from _elsewhere_.

This is the fourth such occurrence over his long life.

The first was a wild, proud warrior he met as a youth when he and Loki snuck to Midgard against Odin’s orders.  He had loved Gudrun dearly, but he had been unable to stay.  He never met their son.

He never met the second, or the third.

And now, another.

He does not know what to make of this new soul’s match.  They write in numbers and letters, a language even Allspeak cannot translate.  Contextless words appear at random – _milk_ , _pipettes_ , _sleep_.  What kind of person is this, and how will he find them?

* * *

Director Fury guided Steve back into SHIELD HQ after his breakout attempt, spouting something about “debriefing” and “orientation.”

Steve didn’t hear a word.  The entire world went gray and silent as he stared at his arms.

For the first twenty-seven years of his life, Steve’s arms had always been covered in music.  Steve himself had no musical ability whatsoever; could barely even keep time.  But he’d learned how to sight read music so he could understand what Bucky was constantly scribbling.  Snatches of Cole Porter, Duke Ellington, Cab Calloway; rarely, bits and pieces of original composition.  Bucky had forever been singing, and he’d always made Steve part of his music.

When Steve went into the ice, he’d carried Bucky’s final message with him – [The Song Is You](http://www.metrolyrics.com/song-is-you-lyrics-frank-sinatra.html).  Bucky’s favorite love song; he swore it had been written for them.

When Steve woke up, the notes were gone.

In their place, a patch of scales.  The next day, interlocking cogs and gears.  Then an intricately detailed rose.  A few days later, complicated mathematical equations he couldn’t even begin to understand.

Steve was ashamed of himself for hating his soul mate, but still the betrayal sat hot and heavy in his chest.

* * *

_Excerpts from HYDRA’s Project: Winter Soldier file_

1942:  Subject 57 exhibits evidence of a soulmate.  Subject’s soulmark is always pictoral; often landscape or architectural.  Research should be done in chemical suppressant…

1944:  Subject 57 recovered.  No soulmarks recorded; possible last mark was on left arm.  Project Head recommended application of MR-152 to suppress further marks…

1945:  Evidence suggests Subject 57’s soulmate was Captain S.G. Rogers, alias Captain America.  Death of said Captain should prevent future marks; Dr. Z advocated additional doses of MR-152 as back-up…

1946:  Subject 57 to be conditioned to respond to Asset.  Said designation to be applied within file…

1992:  During defrosting procedures, Dr. S. discovered presence of soulmark on Asset.  Asset dosed with MR-667.  Mark disappeared within 30 minutes…

1999:  During defrosting procedures, Dr. W discovered presence of soulmark on Asset.  Asset dosed with MR-669.  Mark disappeared within 5 minutes.  Dr. W recommended addition of MR-669 to all future defrosting procedures…

2012:  Given re-emergence of Captain America, Asset to be monitored at all times for appearance of soulmarks...

2014:  Asset exhibiting cognitive recalibration.  Asset exhibiting soulmarks.  Asset dosed with MR-669; Dr. W recommended Asset be immediately removed from interaction with Captain America.  Director Pierce vetoed request…

* * *

Sam always knew he was destined for the air.

When he was a kid, he dreamed of flight constantly; pushing against the wind with strong, beautiful wings.  Gravity was the cruelest mistress; he needed to break free and soar.

Signing up for the Air Force was a no-brainer.  Pararescue wasn’t quite flying, but it was close enough for government work.

The constant drawings of birds, of wings, of planes, of angels on his forearms might have had a little something to do with his decision.

Two peas in a pod, Sam and Riley.  Fearless daredevils both; it only made sense for their call names to be Icarus and Daedalus.  Two batshit crazy sons of bitches sharing one soul and no common sense, as their commander put it.

But Icarus must always fall.  And Daedalus must always watch.

Soulmarks fade within six months of a mate’s death.  Sam was too far away from civilization to get Riley’s final mark tattooed immediately.  But he took pictures, and when he got home the very first thing he did was to eternally preserve his wingman’s final, secret _I love you_.

The tribal-style falcon hovered eternally on Sam’s left shoulder; Icarus remaining with Daedalus always.

* * *

For the first fifteen years of her life, Virginia assumed she was a Blank.  No matter what she wrote or drew on her arms, there was never any answer.  It was sad, but that happened sometimes, and she learned to accept it.

On her fifteenth birthday, her parents showed her the baby pictures.  For the first two years of her life, there had _always_ been doodles.  Robots, cogs and gears, cars.

The doodling stopped suddenly when she was two.

Ed and Georgia Potts could only conclude that their poor Ginny’s soulmate had died young.  They had decided it was kinder for her not to know until she was older.

Virginia had cried for hours.

She kept her secret close to her chest after that, silently mourning her deceased mate.

Until the day she found Tony sleeping in the lab, and spied that day’s to do list scrawled on Tony’s arm.

She had been shocked.  Then furious.  Then embarrassed.  Then horribly sad.  Had he known?  Had he _rejected_ her?

The truth, she learned years later, was even worse.  “Stark men don’t subscribe to superstitious nonsense.”

She knew she shouldn’t think ill of the dead, but Pepper really fucking hated Howard Stark.

* * *

It took a long time to get them here.

Steve had to plow through anger, guilt, betrayal, grief; to come to terms with the fact that a second soulmate didn’t diminish what he’d had with the first.

Darcy had to process the reality that she wasn’t Blank after all; to believe that his struggles to accept her, and them, did not reflect on who she was.

It took time, and tears, and angst, and more than a little heartbreak.  But they were here now; naked and entwined, sated and happy.

Steve is the first to notice that music notes begin to appear in the wake of his fingers on Darcy’s arm.  They stare – Darcy in bemusement, Steve in shock – as Steve’s skin stains to match.

“What-?” Darcy asks.  
“Bucky,” Steve whispers.

Darcy can’t help the way her heart sinks.  They’ve only just begun; is he about to reject her again?

Steve jumps up, scrambling for his suit.  She tries not to be angry; of course Steve will always choose Bucky.

Steve pops back in the doorway, beaming.  “I’ll bring him home,” he promises.  “Bucky’s gonna love you.”

Darcy tries really hard not to let the door closing sound like goodbye.

* * *

As a kid, Clint used to draw on his arms when he got lonely; rough, cartoonish sketches of circus animals.  He liked the idea of his soulmate seeing a little something to brighten their day.

No matter how often he doodled, his own arms remained stubbornly blank.  He always just thought his soulmate was shy, until Barney pointed out the obvious truth.

_Course you’re a Blank_.  _Who the fuck would ever want a coupla nothing wastes of space like us?_

Clint fit in quite well at SHIELD.  They preferred Blanks; in their line of work, it was better to belong to no one.  That was almost easy to accept.

Until the day he got bored on an op, and started doodling.  Through the comm, he heard Phil gasp; soft but sharp.

“Coulson?” he asked, snapping to attention.

Silence.

“I haven’t seen elephants like that for a long time.”

Clint froze.

“Clint?”  It would take an expert to notice how rattled Natasha sounded [he was an expert in Natspeak].  “Why are you drawing elephants?”

Holy shit.

The Budapest op ended up being a shitshow, but Clint got a pretty good consolation prize out of it, if he did say so himself.

* * *

_Stark men don’t believe in superstitious nonsense._

Tony learned early to always wear long sleeves, to ignore the to do lists and flowers that sometimes appeared on his skin.  He never learned why soulmarks filled his father with such rage, but he kept quiet about his own until the day they disappeared.  He tried not to be hurt; he’d always known his soulmate would leave him someday.

Years and years later, when Tony was trapped in an Afghani cave, he stared every night, drinking in the nightly flood of messages.

_Don’t you dare die._

_You absolute bastard._

_You had better stay safe or I will kill you myself._

_Where are you?_

_Write on your fucking arm, Tony._

_Please come home._

He knew he was being surveilled constantly.  He didn’t dare write back while anyone could see.  They could target Pepper, hurt her, _kill_ her; he would _not_ let her be hurt because of him.

But he would quietly press a kiss to the words, praying she could feel it, and silently promise her that he would find a way out.  And when he got home, he would fill her arms with messages; she would never have to doubt him again.

* * *

Speech is often a struggle.

The only words the Asset were allowed to speak were mission reports.  It was not allowed to talk to scientists or handlers or fellow Assets, apart from training other Assets.  It was not allowed to express preferences or independent thoughts other than which weapon it would use to complete its mission.

He doesn’t always have words, now.  Like everything else in this too-fast, too-bright world, there are more words in more languages than he knows what to do with.  He still struggles with the freedom to choose.  Sometimes finding the right words is impossible.

Clever, wonderful, encouraging, _perfect_ Darcy is the one to suggest he draw, instead.

He doesn’t always have words for what he feels.  But he can draw, and Steve and Darcy can watch the designs blossom on their skin.  They always understand.

As his memories return, he carefully traces bars of music for Steve, detailed drawings of flowers for Darcy [his ma loved Victorian flower language].  When he doesn’t remember how to say _he is happy, he is lucky, he is full of wonder_ , he pulls out his colored Sharpies, and he shows them instead.

Sometimes, James thinks it’s better than speech.

* * *

Sometimes, people forget that Dr. Jane Foster is more than just an eccentric astrophysicist.

She’s not often home for long enough to read for pleasure.  But when she is, she almost invariably reaches for thick books of folktales written in Finnish, Norwegian, Icelandic, Swedish.

Once upon a time, Jane planned to study Nordic languages.  It was her only hope to decipher the runes that ran gracefully down her spine.

She’d always been fascinated with her soulmark.  It was unlike the mark of anyone she knew.  The design never changed or moved.  It shimmered with living color, and sometimes warmth radiated from it through her whole body.

It took years of hard work to decipher the runes on her skin.  Even all her diligent, determined study didn’t fully pay off, because the grammar didn’t exactly match any known dialect of any Nordic language.  But when she did manage to get a fairly decent translation…  There had to be a mistranslation, somewhere.  Who wrote love poetry to someone they’d never even met?

After she found Thor, they fell into the habit of reciting poetry to each other, Thor’s Allspeak deftly weaving his words into the languages she worked so hard to learn.

* * *

Assets do not have soulmarks, because Assets do not have souls.

The Red Room only selected girls whose skin was unmarked.  Should a mark ever materialize, the girl would disappear.  Should a girl ever draw on herself, she would disappear.  At the onset of menstruation, Assets were given monthly injections of a drug to keep them unblemished.  Only when a Widow graduated was she taught about this weakness called a soulmark, and how to exploit it.

Once upon a time, a Black Widow was out on a prolonged deep cover operation that prevented her from receiving her monthly injection.

She watched in confusion, in disbelief, in fear, in hope, as cartoonish, charming elephants appear on her arm.

She breaks free of her masters that same day.

She does not know if she relishes or dreads finding him.

Even all these years later, the woman now known as Natasha Romanoff cannot bring herself to draw on her skin.  She cannot allow such a blatant vulnerability.

Nor can she allow her soulmates to believe that she cares nothing for them.

Natasha’s body is unblemished, except for two small constellations tattooed on her scalp, hidden and safe.  Sagittarius and Aquila, her guiding stars.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple small remarks about individual drabbles.
> 
> Tony/Pepper: I have a headcanon that Howard’s soulmark was one day replaced by a concentration camp number tattoo. He happened to be looking at the mark when it disappeared, and that is why he loathes soulmarks so much.
> 
> Natasha: Sagittarius – the Archer. Aquila – the Eagle.


	5. Welcome to the Cult of Ice Spiders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam introduces Darcy to the best. movie. ever.

 

The number of people allowed access to the Avenger floors of Avengers Tower [sorry Tony, nobody is ever gonna call it Stark Tower at this point, just give in and accept it] is very small.  This is both for the safety of the Avengers themselves [because enemies, duh] and the safety of the rest of the Tower’s commercial and residential guests [Avengers are not the safest people to be around, surprisingly].  So only Avengers and Avengers-Adjacent [as Tony’s right-hand Gal Friday termed them] were given access keycards to the top fifteen floors of the Tower.

Given all that, theoretically it would have been possible for Sam and Darcy to only rarely, if ever, cross paths. Sam spent the majority of his time in the Tower with the supersoldier twins, and the rest of the time he was doing VA work on a rotating schedule between all five boroughs, taking full advantage of his re-re-furbished wings. Meanwhile, Darcy was a Science! minion when she wasn't working on her Poli Sci doctorate [which she really only insisted on getting to annoy her dad - a personal favorite pastime.  Next up, she’d make her mom happy and finish up her customized degree aimed toward corporate law.].

But, as fate or insomnia would have it, they found their way into a proper little meet-cute.

Sam was up at fuck-dark-thirty because of a nightmare. He didn't have them as frequently as Steve or Bucky, and he was better at dealing with them in a healthy way, but yeah. He was a soldier too, and he had his share of shit to carry.  He'd gotten into the habit of going to the common room and watching movies to wait out the rest of a nightmare-plagued night. Really, truly stupid movies; the more implausible, the better. Late night SyFy had become his best friend.  It was hard to remain tortured by memories of desert sand and Icarus falling when you were watching _Piranhaconda._

Darcy was up because she was on Hour Sixteen of dissertation writing, and while she needed this draft fucking finished already, she also needed a break. And coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. She'd Mission: Impossible’d her way down to Skynet, as Tony’s private workshop was lovingly nicknamed [all hail to Darcy’s kickass baby sister, our new AI overlady] to steal the good espresso, blithely ignoring the fact that Tony programmed the fingerprint lock to only open for him, her and Pepper - the prerogatives of family, he'd said.  

After checking to make sure her robotic brothers had made it to their recharging stations [Tony always forgot to make sure they’d plugged in at the end of the night] and swinging by her private lab to make sure the specs on a couple side projects were running as projected, Darcy figured she’d stretched her legs just about enough to bear returning to her suite to get back to her horrible, awful, want-it-dead-already paper [she’d saved the draft under the name HYDRA.  She was amused.].  She just needed to pop by the common lounge for the bag of stress balls Clint had hidden for her behind the baking pans, and then she’d get back to writing about Nixon’s back room political dealings.

She shuffled into the common lounge, not paying much attention to anything other than not spilling any precious caffeinated goodness out of her bowl-sized mug.  But when she saw the movie playing on the 72" plasma screen, she stopped dead, tilting her head as she clutched her espresso bowl to her chest.

"What in the name of J. Edgar's frilly thongs is _that_?" she asked, eyes wide.

Sam jumped, but relaxed upon seeing the disheveled, frazzled figure he recognized as Dr. Foster's [and apparently Tony's...?] right-hand woman.

" _Ice Spiders_ ," he said, giving the title the weight and pomposity it deserved.

Darcy blinked again, her residual urge to steal the Tesseract and time travel so she could punch Nixon and his cronies right in the nose fading as she drank in the spectacle of ski resort patrons being attacked by genetically mutated, horribly rendered CGI spiders. 

“What is this work of cinematic genius and why have I never heard of it?” she asked with a level of awe and wonder in her voice that’s usually reserved for the magic of Christmas.  
“We’re gonna get along just fine, you and me,” Sam grinned, nodding in approval.  “Have a seat and let me take you on an adventure,” he said grandly, patting the sofa next to him.

Darcy shuffled forward as if in a trance, her eyes glued to the screen with rapt attention.  Fuck her paper; Nixon could wait until the morning.  This was _much_ more important.

“FRIDAY, can we restart please?” Sam asked, tilting his head back toward the ceiling.  
“Of course, sir,” FRIDAY agreed.  “Lewis, there are Butterfinger Bites in the cupboard.”  
“You’re a peach, sis,” Darcy said, reverently setting down her espresso and heading for the kitchen.  “Can I get you anything?  Sam, right?”  
“Right,” he nodded.  “And you’re Darcy.  Foster’s intern?”  
“I think my business card says Lab Manager now,” she corrected him.  “But I prefer Minion Prime.”  
“It’s a good title,” Sam nodded.  
“Right?” Darcy grinned appreciatively.  “I don’t know why Pepper won’t let me use it for realsies.  Alright, I have irresponsible amounts of candy.  What else do we need for this adventure?”  
“Get us something to drink,” Sam instructed.  “This is not a movie you watch sober.”  
“The best kind of movie,” Darcy declared.

Moments later, she had returned with her Butterfingers, a five pound bag of Skittles, a bottle of Jack Daniels Honey and two glasses.

“Alright, I’m ready,” she stated.  “Teach me, senpai.”  
“There are exactly four rules to this game,” Sam began.  
“Oh my god only four?!  This movie is _perfect_.  I love it and I haven’t even seen it yet.  Best movie ever,” Darcy declared, eyes wide with glee [and possibly exhaustion-induced mania].  
“Oh just wait, grasshopper,” Sam smirked.  “Number one, take a drink every time someone says Dash Dashiell’s name.  Number two, every time someone falls.  Number three, every time there’s a spider attack.  Number four, take a drink every time there’s a truly questionable acting choice.  That’s gotta be decided and agreed upon by committee, coz there’s a lot of ‘em.”  
“Dude, I am so ready for this,” Darcy swore.  “Let’s do this.”

Neither remembered very much of the evening past the first half hour. 

[In later days, Tony would be a little disappointed that his spawn didn’t last longer in this drinking game.  What happened to the famous Stark cast-iron liver?  Fail, Bot.  You bring dishonor upon House Stark.  And our cow.]

* * *

It became a Thing, for the rest of the semester. Not every night or even every week, but several times over the next several weeks, they'd discover each other in the common room in the late hours of the night, and they'd watch awful SyFy movies.  And some not-so-awful ones [Darcy has a not-so-secret fondness for _Alice_ , okay?  Andrew Lee Potts is a goddamn national treasure, and never mind that he’s a Brit.]. And then late night infomercials [almost as good].

And then they'd just talk – about how Sam would watch literally any kung-fu or otherwise martial arts movie, while Darcy refused to watch anything Will Ferrell was in, but she’s down for any Mike Myers.  Or how Darcy would not apologize for her unironic love of 80s glam rock, and how Sam was getting a thorough education in big band swing from James.  They talked about her Ph.D. track and whether Sam wanted to stay with the VA or maybe open his own pro bono practice, their favorite NYC tourist traps, whether the Air Force or the Avengers was the more ridiculous employer, whether Steve was more a Cool Ranch or a Spicy Sweet Chili Dorito, the best pizza places in all five boroughs.

They still didn't really cross paths during the day, which is how they managed to escape detection. Until that unfortunate night when Tony's insomnia coincided with Day Three of a Science! bender [always the worst day]. And since he was out of all caffeination in the lab [spawn's fault], he headed up to the common kitchen to raid Darcy’s super secret stash...

Only to see his Baby Bot making out with Feathers.

The confrontation did not go well, to say the least. Two insomniac, caffeine-deprived Starks arguing? It was only due to the combined efforts of Sam, Vision and Pepper that the Tower remained standing.

* * *

Sam and Darcy's first official date was a late-night double feature showing of _Sharknado 2_ and _Frankenfish_ in Greenwich Village.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not saying that this one-shot is based on a real episode from my life, because I am neither an overworked doctoral student nor a former Air Force officer turned superhero.  But the drinking game?  That is absolutely a real drinking game that I have played several times while being introduced to, and later inducting others into, the Cult of the Ice Spiders.  It is quite possibly my new favorite movie of all time.
> 
> Also, I kind of adore this drabble?  Like a lot?  I’m not going to say that I want to expand it into a longer story, because I’m currently bouncing back and forth between legitimately half a dozen different projects right now and if I add any more I think my head might explode.  But someday, I might want to come back to this and turn it into its own proper little one-shot.  I ship this pairing a whole lot harder than I thought I would.


	6. The Code of House Stark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House Stark has a super secret spy code.

 

The elder two-thirds of House Stark have a Code.

The youngest third of said House will be indoctrinated into said Code once he (and his father… and his half-sister, to be honest) has gotten used to the fact that he is, in fact, a Stark.  [Dear Tony:  Seriously, what the fuck is in your sperm that foiled a vasectomy, _twice_?]

The Code was developed in the very early days of their relationship, just after six-year-old Darcy was informed by Grandpa Tim who her biological father was. Neither she nor Tony was ready to reveal a Stark heiress’ existence to the world, let alone admit to the rest of the Legacies that Darcy wasn’t just another Dugan, but Tony wanted to have some subtle way to gauge how his Baby Bot was doing on any given day.  [Yes, yes; a Stark, being subtle?  Will miracles never cease?  Dear Howlies, those jokes were already old when you were ribbing Howard.  Please stop.]

The Code became super useful once Darcy grew up and started adopting scientists [and aliens, and interns] and finally moved into the Tower.  She's still pissed she somehow lost that argument, honestly, but whatever.  At least she can hang out with her robotic brothers and new AI sister while keeping an eye on her lunatic father and waiting for her flesh-and-blood brother to join the party.  And, y’know, maybe sometimes ogle a super-soldier and his _stupidly pretty_ fancy robot arm [she is not just a Stark in name, after all].  Darcy still wasn’t ready to admit to being a Legacy in more than just name, let alone reveal the length and breadth of her Stark inheritance [enough brains to match her billions, let’s leave it at that], so the “super secret spy code” – Tony’s words, not hers – once again proved its worth as a method of clandestine communication.

The Code is simple, and based on nicknames.

When Darcy calls him "Stark," all is well with the world in general and herself in particular.  If all is well in Tony's world, Darcy gets called "Lewis" - Lovely Excellent Witty Intelligent Spawn.

"Tony" means Darcy Does Not Approve of whatever her lunatic father is doing, and if he doesn't knock it off toot sweet she's bringing in the big guns [Pepper, of course].  When Tony Does Not Approve of Darcy’s Shenanigans, he calls her "Minion" or "Intern."  [Seriously Bot, stop emulating your old man with the shenanigans.  You’re supposed to be the smart one in this family.]

"Old man" means Tony should really be paying attention to what the fuck she's saying.  "Shortstack" is the corresponding Listen To Your Old Man warning.

Any variation on "Iron Man" means Pay The Fuck Attention This Has To Do With SHIELD And/Or World-Ending Avengers Bullshit. Darcy You Need To Listen And Do As I Say Because Shit Is Going Down nets Darcy getting called Princess Fiona [it's a whole long Thing and you do not want to know].

Darcy doesn't really use any kind of paternal signifier; even twenty years on, it’s bizarre to acknowledge Tony as her father and not just her super weird extravagant benefactor-slash-buddy, and anyways her father figure, for better or worse, was Grandpa Tim. If she ever says "Daddy," though... Tony will burn down the world to protect his Baby Bot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darcy and Harley being Tony’s kids is my absolute favorite trope and it will probably make its way into literally everything I ever write for this fandom. I will never turn down a Darcy Stark story.


	7. The Sweetest Burden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha carries many secrets and burdens. But this is a task she does not think she can bear.

 

Natasha gets why everyone asks her to be their final solution.  

Really.  She does.  The Avengers may be called superheroes, but they are also dangerous, unstable people who don't fully trust themselves, and if worse comes to worst they need the comfort of knowing that someone will make the impossible call – put them down, ensure they cannot hurt anyone, even themselves.  She knows it is a sign of profound trust, that all of her teammates feel they can depend upon her to be that person.

It is a heavy burden to bear, knowing that they all believe her the only one who will make that call and follow through to the bitter end.

It is a heavier burden to know that they are right.

It is the heaviest burden to admit that she has had plans ready for each of them since before she met them.

When Darcy sits down beside her on the obscenely plush couch in the common lounge at four in the morning, her normally vibrant eyes red-rimmed and haunted by the nightmare that had shaken her awake and her entire body thrumming with anxiety, Natasha feels something in her chest shrivel and go cold.  She cannot bear the burden of what Darcy is going to ask, what they always ask...

"I have trouble, sometimes," Darcy admits, hesitant and unbearably sweet.  "Finding the strength to... to keep going, I guess.  To keep believing that there's a point to being here.  I... I watch you, sometimes," she says shyly, a beautiful rosy blush staining her cheeks.  "After everything they- and I mean, I don't know everything, I haven't gone looking outside of SHIELD files, but-"    
"Milaya, it's fine," Nat breaks in, and it is a struggle to keep her voice even.  "You should know what I’m capable of.  That’s the first step in protecting yourself."    
Darcy draws a deep breath, refocusing.  "Right.  Well.  Point is, even after everything they put you through...  You're still here, y'know?  You're still fighting.  And you're not just going through the motions, you...  You abuse emojis.  You're a complete slut for sparkly nail polish, but only on your toes.  You unironically enjoy K-Pop.  You're _living_ , and I...  I need somebody who can remind me to do that.  Not to give up.  Can you-?"

Natasha has tried really hard to keep some distance from this girl.  She couldn't bear the thought of tainting Darcy with her sins or the red in her ledger, though she knew she did not deserve the younger woman’s trust.  But here Darcy sits, straining, yearning for something she thinks Nat can give her, and it's not a death sentence, it's _life_ , and she trusts _Nat_ of all people to do this for her...  Beautiful, vivacious, clever, sarcastic, wonderful Darcy whom so many loved and who could turn to anyone and they would bend over backwards to help her, but she came to _Nat_ despite her reputation and the horrible things Darcy must have seen in her file, and she saw the person Natasha was trying to become and somehow that superseded the Black Widow in her mind, and…

She has leaned in and placed her lips on Darcy's before she realizes she's moved.  For an instant she freezes, petrified of the mistake, of revealing too much, of the rejection she knows she deserves...  And then Darcy melts beneath her, kisses back, threads her fingers through Natasha's hair and pulls her closer like she's trying to drink her in.

Yes.  Natasha can happily bear this burden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry [not sorry], the chapter summary was a bit misleading. Mine is not the happiest of headspaces right now [my depression is down, but my anxiety is waaaaaay the hell up], so I thought about trying to angst but it appears I have fluffed instead. Oops? Enjoy your cavities!


	8. In a Straight Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Great Depression and wartime brought privations to ladies on both sides of the Atlantic. Luckily, Steve Rogers is always happy to lend a helping hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Horrific Enabler Beta [aka my wonderful Erica, the Sam to my Bucky] recently discovered a new kink. I couldn’t help but feed it. But because I didn’t want to get horrifically wordy or catastrophically angsty, I forced myself to keep it to 400-word drabbles. Don’t say I never give you anything, Satan.

 

1941—

“Steve, you’ve gotta hurry.  Johnny’ll be here any minute!”  
“Good or quick, Becs.  Pick one.”

Rebecca Barnes huffed, struggling not to squirm under the delicate touch of the brown eyeliner pencil.  She could have done her own lines, it was true, or asked Rachel.  But Rachel was even more excitable than Becca herself, and didn’t have the patience to make the lines straight.  And Becca could admit she was lazy.  She would have worn regular socks, except she was going on a date with _Johnny O’Malley_ and that merited some effort.

So she’d popped over to Steve and Bucky’s, bringing a tin of leftovers as an excuse.  Bucky had asked her to keep an especial eye on Steve while he was in Basic.  All the Barneses knew that Steve was horrible at taking care of himself, and that he’d be awful lonesome without his best pal around to pull him out of trouble.  And anyways, after the chaos of her house – Hannah and Rachel squabbling, Bunică supervising Mama’s efforts in the kitchen while her Tata tried to find peace and quiet with a pipe – it was nice to come to Steve’s apartment, to tease him for leaving his art supplies everywhere and his pitiful attempts to darn his socks while he made her a cup of fragrant tea.

Despite his disapproval - apparently he was honor-bound to scowl on Bucky’s behalf that no man was good enough for her but especially not a “worthless good-for-nothing roustabout” - Steve was willing enough to do her lines.  Being an artist, he was unsurprisingly deft at it, gently smudging the eyeliner to make it less obvious that she wasn’t wearing real stockings.

With a final hum of approval, Steve patted her back and let her carefully clamber off the mattress.

“Thanks, Steve,” she gratefully said, kissing his cheek.  
“Course,” he nodded, worrying at his hair, which never wanted to lay flat despite the pomade.  “Just… be careful, okay?  I know you can take care of yourself,” he added hurriedly.  “But don’t let him pressure you into anything.”  
“I know how to punch,” she reminded him.  “Better than you do.  I listen to my brother, see.”  
“Yeah,” Steve said, huffing out a rueful laugh.  “Still.”  
“I’ll be fine, worrywart,” she said.  “But if it makes you feel better, I’ll stop off on my way home.”  
“Alright,” he nodded, nudging her shoulder.  “Go on, then.”

* * *

1943—

Mary, Alice, Betty and Steve giggled like naughty schoolchildren as they snuck into Radio City Music Hall through the rear stage doors.  When Alice had realized that Steve was a native, she’d demanded he take them on a tour, ignoring his insistence that he didn’t know Manhattan’s Theater District nearly as well as the back alleys of Brooklyn’s Vinegar Hill.  Alice was a never to be denied force of nature, and where Alice went, Betty and Mary eventually followed.

[Mary would be lying if she said she was an unwilling participant.  They were very different people; Alice a rough-and-tumble tomboy from upstate New York and Mary a shy preacher’s daughter from Topeka.  But Alice was like a magnet, or an enchantress; Mary was helpless to resist her madcap ideas.]

“Damn, we’re late,” Alice commented as they wove their way through the backstage labyrinth.  “Guess that means you’re doing us up, Rogers.”  
Betty laughed.  “You shameless hussy.  You just want the good Captain’s hands all over your legs.”  
“Don’t you?” Alice retorted, waggling her eyebrows at Steve and laughing as he blushed.  “Oh, don’t you try to be shy with me, buster.  We’ve all seen each other naked, you don’t get to be shy now.”  
“Alice!  You’re so _bad_!” Mary weakly chastised her through giggles.

It wasn’t like Steve hadn’t _made time_ with a few of the USO girls, Alice included.  It was to be expected, really; he had the jaw of a movie star and the body of a Greek god.  Tabloids speculated that Steve had left a string of broken hearts behind him.  But really, he hadn’t nearly as many indiscretions as one might suppose for someone who looked like he did.  And he was so sweet, respectful, earnest, and so fiercely protective of all the girls; like a doting older brother, or a particularly devoted Labrador retriever.

And really, he was a dab hand at evenly applying foundation and eyeliner.  Even with wealthy patrons donating to this tour, they suffered the same wartime privations as anyone, and stockings were dearly-held commodities. 

And if it was going to be gentle, respectful Steve with his steady hands and sharp eye taking care of their legs, well…  Mary would be a fool to argue, wouldn’t she.

“It’ll be my genuine pleasure, ladies,” Steve said, a coy grin curling his mouth.  
“You shameless charmer,” Alice said approvingly.  “Never change, Rogers.”  
“No, ma’am.”

* * *

1944—

Peggy tried to move slowly to avoid bumping into furniture in the pre-dawn dim.  She could barely make out Steve’s silhouette, half-propped on his elbow and [she knew without needing to see] watching her with appreciative eyes.

“Don’t you start,” she murmured, trying to keep the smile out of her voice.  “Or I’ll never get out of here.”  
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” he replied, his voice a low rumble that sent a delicious chill up her spine.

Peggy scoffed, nimbly buttoning up her blouse.  No longer sharply pressed after a long day [and a longer night abandoned on the floor], but it would have to do.  She had a spare tube of lipstick and a few hairpins in her bag; that was about all she could do to mask how little sleep she’d gotten the night before.  Brazen confidence would have to do the rest.

The indiscretion could get her court marshalled; discharged, even.  Which was a spectacularly unfair double standard when Sergeant Barnes could get away with ambling in before morning report with a wink and a smile.  Still, she couldn’t bring herself to regret the potential consequences when weighed against the certain benefits.  Steve had confessed that despite the rumors he wasn’t terribly experienced, but oh he was such a quick learner…

Sighing, Peggy glanced down at her legs, her mouth screwing into a moue of displeasure.  It was unlikely that the Colonel would notice that she hadn’t had time to do her lines up, but Howard certainly would, and he had a big mouth when he was curious… or amused… or all the time, actually.

“Damn,” she muttered.  
“Pegs?” Steve asked.  
“Nothing,” she shook her head, knowing there was nothing for it.

Steve’s brow furrowed; she tried not to find it adorable.  [She failed.]

“What…?  Oh!  Your lines?” Steve asked.  “I can… um… I can do them?  If you want?”  
Peggy paused, cocking her head.  “Do I want to know?”  
Steve ducked his head as he sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck.  “I did ‘em for the girls on the monkey circuit, sometimes.  And for Bucky’s sister, before that.”  
“Are you any good?” she asked, wavering.  
Steve smiled again, and this time the look was anything but innocent.  “Why don’t you come over here and find out.”

Peggy was late getting to the Colonel’s office, but her lines were perfect.  It was, she thought, an acceptable trade-off.

* * *

2017—

“This was a terrible idea.  Why the hell did I let Nat talk me into this.”

Steve grinned to himself as he sat on the couch, nursing a beer while he listened to Darcy grumble.  This alone was worth the insanity tonight was sure to be.

The party had been Pepper’s idea; a 1940s themed dance competition cum charity fundraiser to help rebuild after the Avengers’ last escapade in Hell’s Kitchen.  Steve hadn’t been too enthusiastic about breaking out his dress uniform given that Bucky was going in a charcoal grey three-piece suit, but he’d shut up real quick when Bucky pointed out that their girl would be in ankle strap heels and a garter belt.  He was only human.

“You alright in there, dollface?” Bucky asked, failing to stifle his smirk.  
“How the fuck did Aunt Peggy manage all this?” Darcy hissed.  “Fuck!”  
“Language,” the boys chorused primly.  
“One of you mooks get in here and help me,” she groused.

They glanced at each other before both dashing to the door, scuffling when their broad shoulders got stuck in the hallway.  At the sight of Darcy, though, they both froze, staring.

The swing dress hanging on the door was blood red.  Darcy’s brassiere and girdle were black lace.  She smiled, slow and sultry, the corners of her red-painted mouth sharp as a shark’s fin.

“Dunno what you’re complainin’ about, doll,” Bucky said hoarsely, his mouth dry.  “You look a treat.”  
“Still need help,” she said, pouting prettily.  “Nat insisted we do this right.”

She held up an eyebrow pencil, looking up at Steve from under her long, long lashes.

“Family history has it you’re the best at this,” she said, slowly pivoting before glancing over her shoulder like a damn Vargas girl, her face framed by victory rolls.  “Help a lady out, soldier?”  
“Fuuuuuuck,” Bucky muttered under his breath as Steve fell to his knees.  
“Oh no, Sarge,” Darcy smiled coyly, a restraining hand on his chest.  “You mess up my lipstick and you go to bed with blue balls, I swear to God.”  
“You’re killin’ me,” he moaned, pressing slow, dirty kisses up the line of her neck.  
“Damn right I am,” she nodded.

Steve maintained he was not to blame for getting distracted, his hands sliding up her legs.  He had a weakness for drawing a lady’s lines on and he would not be shamed for it.

* * *

1938—

“No.”  
“Aw, c’mon.”  
“No!”  
“Why not?”  
“Coz!  It’s stupid!”  
“It ain’t stupid, stupid; it’s good sense.”  
“How?”  
“Because!  If you’re gonna be that close to a lady’s legs, you should know how to fix what you mess up!”  
“That’s…  How do you even know this?”  
“I know lots of things, Stevie.  Now c’mon, we gotta practice.”  
“Why’m I practicing on you?  You ain’t gonna wear makeup on your legs.”  
“Well, no.  But you gotta practice on somebody and you’re terrible with girls.”  
“Gee, thanks.”  
“I’m just sayin’.”  
“I’ll practice on Becca.”  
“You ain’t gettin’ nowhere near my sister, Rogers.”  
“What, you don’t trust me?”  
“Oh no, I trust you.  It’s her I don’t trust.”  
“She’ll be real happy about that, Buck.”  
“Shut up and stop stallin’.”   
“Ugh.  Fine.  ……How does this work?”  
“Are you kiddin’ me?  You know what seamed stockings look like, Steve!”  
“Well, yeah, but…”  
“But what?  It’s just learning to draw straight lines up their legs.  You’re an artist, this should be easy.”  
“I draw _landscapes_ , Bucky.”  
“This ain’t that different.  ….I can hear you rolling your eyes.”  
“You can’t either.”  
“Yes I can.”  
“Shut up.  And hold still.”  
“It tickles!”  
“Hold still!  How far up should this go?”  
“Uhh… probably a couple inches past the knee, right?  In case her skirt rides up.”  
“Bucky!”  
“What!  Ladies bend over sometimes, don’t they?”  
“I guess…”  
“Right.  So you should plan for that, just in case.  You done?”  
“Hang on…  Done.”  
“Right, lemme look.  ……Huh.  Not bad, Rogers.”  
“You think?”  
“Yeah.  Smudge it a bit, make it less sharp.”  
“Don’t ladies wanna look sharp?”  
“Course they do, but seams aren’t quite like this, y’know?  They’re… softer.”  
“Huh.  Like this?”  
“…………”  
“Bucky?”  
“Y-Yeah.  Like that.”  
“You okay?”  
“Yeah.  Yeah, course I’m fine.  Why wouldn’t I be fine?”  
“I didn’t say you weren’t.”  
“Right.  Yeah.”  
“You try.”  
“What?!”  
“You need the practice more’n I do, Buck.”  
“Oh.  Yeah.  Right.  Okay.  Uhh…”  
“Are you gonna do this or not?”  
“Gimme a sec!  Just… gotta get comfortable.”  
“How do you even make this sweet for a girl?”  
“Same as anything else.  Make her feel safe, cherished.  Special.”  
“Show me.”

Fingertips sliding up calves and thighs; mouths following in their wakes.  Whispers and kisses; compliments and caresses.  The spectre of a woman disappearing in the wake of the reality before them.  A mistake; a sin; a necessity.

Steve’s obsession with legs never did fade.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally didn’t mean to start shipping my own OC’s, but suddenly I ship Alice and Mary so very hard. Someday I may revisit them and their USO tour shenanigans with Steve [and Bucky reacting through letters].
> 
> Sorrynotsorry for the implied smutty shenanigans. It’s all Steve’s fault.


	9. We'll Be Chasing Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky have always privately had Issues with the Words branded on their flesh.

 

Human beings come in all shapes, sizes and hues.  They differ in language, in culture, in religion, in intelligence and socio-economic status and values.  No two human beings are the same; each a unique distillation of a complicated web of genetics, chemistry, and environmental factors.

There is, in fact, only one tangible commonality between every human being on the face of the planet:  the Words.

Every single human being has, somewhere on their person, a collection of Words.  The Words may be concrete; a line of poetry, a sentence, a spoken greeting.  Or they may be abstract; a cluster of keywords arranged like a crossword puzzle or in some pattern or picture.  The Words can be anywhere on the body, but most often upon the left arm.

The Words are sometimes called a soul mark, for the Words belong not to the person on whom they are inscribed, but to that one’s soul mate.  Everyone has a soul mate, and it is guaranteed that soul mates will always meet.  A soul mate could be platonic, or that relationship could develop into a romantic one.  Either way, the soul mate is one’s Person; the soul whom one needs by their side, who will come into one’s life and enhance and complete it.  And the Words represent the single word or phrase that is central to the soul mate’s core and identity.

It can be quite difficult to determine exactly who one’s soul mate is.  It requires deep, personal understanding of one’s Person to match the Words on one’s arm to the correct Person in one’s life.  It is for this reason that it is considered highly improper to reveal one’s Words.  The Words are, after all, the most intimate part of the soul mate’s soul; it is not something meant for all eyes.  Nor are the Words to be discussed in public, or with casual acquaintances.  Words are something akin to sacred, and respect for that sanctity is written into the social fabric.

* * *

Steve Rogers grew up worrying about the Words nestled on the inside of his upper left arm.  Steve was one of the people who had a cluster of Words, rather than a concrete phrase.  There were some days when Steve was grateful for this; he’d known a boy in grade school who was unfortunate enough to have what seemed like an entire novel written across most of his body.  Steve’s Words were safely covered even by short sleeves.  Which was good, because the only people Steve had ever shown his Words to – his Ma, Mrs. Barnes, and Bucky – had all reacted with identical shock and worry.

Steve’s Words were an icy blue-grey, freezing cold to the touch.  At first glance, it appeared that Steve’s mark was a single word; _ice_.  The word was a visual onomatopoeia; it looked like a block of frost and ice on his skin.  There were cracks in the Word, and those cracks formed other words.  Words like _pain_ , like _kill_ , like _soldier_ , like _scream_.  There was an incongruous warm spot in the center of the ice, shaped like a lick of flame.  That flame was also a Word; his own name.

Steve wasn’t sure how he felt about the idea that his soul mate could hold words like _kill_ , _pain_ , and _scream_ as centrally important.  There was hope in the idea that he was a warm flame that would melt his Person’s icy heart, but… did he even want to be soul mates with someone who was potentially a killer?

There had been a time in his adolescence when Steve had railed against the unfairness of the universe.  How could the universe think him right for an icy, cold-blooded murderer when he could be Bucky’s Person?  Bucky was already the most important person in the whole wide world to him; how could any soul mate possibly eclipse Bucky’s position in Steve’s life?  Did he even _want_ someone else in his life?  How could anyone ever possibly suit him better than Bucky?

At the tender age of seventeen, Steve decided he didn’t care one bit for what the universe had to say about it.  As far as he was concerned, Bucky was his Person.  And whoever Bucky’s Person ended up being, they would just have to share, because Steve had no intention of going anywhere.

[It was at this same age that Steve decided the burning jealousy in his gut whenever he thought about Bucky’s Person was simply because he was mad at the universe.  Not because he wanted Bucky all to himself in every way possible.  Same-gendered soul mates happened often, but popular opinion was that those were always platonic bonds and anything else was unnatural and morally reprehensible.

Steve was pretty sure going to hell was worth the price of loving Bucky.]

* * *

Bucky spent most of his life privately wrestling with the idea of who his Person would be.

It wasn’t that his Person sounded at all frightening or threatening, like Steve’s [could anybody’s Person sound as terrifying as Steve’s?].  No, on the surface Bucky’s words were just fine.  They promised that his Person was going to be fundamentally _good_ ; a thoroughly kind and decent and desirable person to have around [his mama was very proud].

It was just…

_Not a perfect soldier, but a good man._

Bucky’s Person was a man.

Bucky knew himself pretty well.  He could spin a lie with the best of them, make anyone believe anything.  But he couldn’t lie to himself.  He knew, he just _knew_ that he was doomed to fall in love with his Person.  How could he not?  Bucky _loved_ the idea of a soul mate; the concept that the universe had crafted this soul just for you, and you for them.  Linked, bound, inescapable and inevitable.  How could he possibly not love his Person?  He couldn’t, that’s how.

He was going to love his soul mate.  Who was a man.

He was dooming himself to hell.

The Words were a warm, shining gold color.  They sat in a cluster on his right shoulder, forming a five-pointed star about the size of his palm [not that he liked to rest his hands over his Words and feel them warm up beneath his touch, or anything].

He still couldn’t help but feel like his Person was gonna be worth being damned.

* * *

Steve sat on the edge of his cot silently staring down at his hands long after Dr. Erskine had left him with a tipsy admonishment to get some rest for his big day tomorrow.  He wasn’t sure if he’d managed to stammer out a reply to the scientist; his mind was still reeling, trying to understand what had just happened.

_Not a perfect soldier, but a good man…_

How long had Steve secretly hated, loathed and despised that phrase?  How many hours had he spent contemplating the person for whom those Words were a central tenant, trying to steel himself against the hatred he couldn’t help but feel for Bucky’s soul mate?  Every time he caught a glimpse of Bucky’s bared shoulder, a lance of white-hot pain had shot through him, reminding him again and again that no matter how much he loved his best friend, Bucky wasn’t his to hold on to.

  _Not a perfect soldier, but a good man…_

They had discussed their soul marks exactly once in all the time they’d been friends.  It had been Steve’s twenty-first birthday, and Bucky had saved up for months to buy him art supplies for a life drawing class, as well as a few choice bottles of alcohol.  They’d gone up to the roof of their building to drink, devour the small birthday cake Mrs. Barnes had made for him, and watch the fireworks explode over the city.

Looking at Bucky lit up in golds, reds and greens, Steve hadn’t been able to breathe.  Bucky had thrown his head back and laughed at the enormous chest-rattling booms, his eyes shining more than the fireworks.  He’d been so fucking beautiful…

He didn’t remember how they’d started talking about their soul marks.  But Bucky had gone on and on and _on_ about their future People, waxing poetic about gold and cold and ice and fire until Steve’s Words seemed almost romantic.

“S’a lot t’live up to, Stevie,” Bucky had confessed some time later.  “I ain’t a good enough man for ‘em.  But shit, gotta try, right?”

_Not a perfect soldier, but a good man…_

One corner of Steve’s mouth curled up, followed by the other until he was grinning like the Cheshire Cat.  He thought of the golden star on Bucky’s shoulder, and for the first time he felt his heart blaze with hope instead of jealousy.

Bucky was right.  He had a lot to live up to.

His smile dimmed a little as he glanced at the Words on his left arm.  They _had_ to be Bucky’s…  How on earth could _these_ be Bucky’s Words?  What was the war gonna do to him, that was going to turn his soul so dark and frightening?

_Not a perfect soldier, but a good man…_

Well.  Whatever it was, Steve was just gonna have to be a good enough man to help him, that was all.

* * *

The Asset prowled through the bolt hole, triple-checking that the safe house really was secured against surveillance.  It would not be safe to remain here longer than three hours; just long enough to refuel, tend to its more serious injuries, and resupply.  There were three other safe houses in the city, the Asset knew; all would need to be cleaned out before morning, and then the Asset would roll a pair of 20-sided dice and plot a new course.

Just over an hour later, the Asset had reset its dislocated shoulder, eaten a protein ration, and methodically packed two large duffel bags full of cash, paperwork, rations, changes of clothing, surveillance equipment, and a few weapons.  For now, the Asset did not intend to hunt down its HYDRA masters.  The Asset was critically low on credible intelligence; to attack a base without gathering information was a suicide mission.  The Asset was not prepared to be decommissioned just yet.

Having prepared for departure, the Asset gathered another change of clothing and stepped into the bathroom.  It was a risk to use the shower, but presenting a clean appearance would raise less suspicion among civilians in the long run.  Quickly, the Asset stripped out of its boots, combat pants, and leather vest, avoiding looking at its face in the mirror.

The sight of the black bandage on its right shoulder gave the Asset pause.

The Asset did not have memories, per se.  It was wiped after every mission, after maintenance and before cryostasis; the only knowledge carried from assignment to assignment was mission-compliant information.  The most important of this information were The Rules.

  1. Assets answer only to the Handler.
  2. The Mission must always be completed.
  3. Disobedience will be punished; compliance will be rewarded.
  4. Pain is irrelevant except when it interferes with completion of the Mission.
  5. The bandage covering the Asset’s shoulder must never be removed.



The Asset had already disobeyed every other Rule today; might as well go five for five.

With shaking, hesitant hands, shoulders tensed in anticipation of a blow that would not come, the Asset removed the bandage.

The Asset drew in a sharp breath, staring.  Its eyes darted from shoulder to shoulder, staring at the two stars.  One red paint; the mark of the Asset’s first owners before it was traded to HYDRA.  One gold and warm as living fire.

_Not a perfect soldier, but a good man…_

The Asset knew what a soul mark was.  Words were an important pressure point to ensure victim compliance.  All human beings had Words.

The Asset never knew it also had Words.  It was an asset, a weapon.  Weapons had no souls.  But… but it…  Was the Asset, perhaps, human?

 _Your name is James Buchanan Barnes_ , a whisper, the voice of the Captain, curled through his mind, strengthening him, giving him a focus and a purpose.  _You’re my friend._

He did not know what Words might grace the skin of his Person; he shuddered to think what horrors they had to live with.  But he made himself a promise as he stepped into the shower.  He would take his Person’s Words for his own.

Not a perfect Soldier, not anymore.

A good man.

* * *

They were…  Somewhere in Poland.  Probably.  Steve had honestly lost track; specific locations had blurred into identical shady motel rooms and staking out abandoned office buildings and warehouses.

He stared down blankly at the thick file in his lap.  He’d read HYDRA’s file on the Winter Soldier almost daily; these days he wasn’t so much digesting information as blankly staring at the Cyrillic [and later Roman] letters and hoping for a new clue to jump out at him. 

After a while though, he couldn’t bear to look at it anymore.  Closing the file and tossing it onto the side table, Steve flung himself backwards onto the none-too-clean pillows and musty bedcover, closing his eyes against the stab of grief skewering his heart.  Goddamnit Bucky; why did he have to be so damn hard to find?

He tilted his head when he heard the shower turning off, glancing toward the bathroom door as Sam exited.  It was a mark of trust that Sam was walking around without his shirt, Steve knew; his friend was very protective of the faded grey Words gently curving along his shoulders like wings.

_Never regret thy fall, O Icarus of the fearless flight.  For the greatest tragedy of them all is never to feel the burning light._

Steve thinks he would’ve really liked Riley.  From what little Steve knows of him, Riley sounded fearless and full of life; the kind of person who enhanced the life of everyone he encountered.

The one constant about soul marks was that when one’s Person died, their Words turned grey and lifeless.  Some people reported losing sensation in the skin around their mark, as if that part of their flesh had died, too.

Sam had talked about it, late one night when he’d woken them both up with his screams.  Steve had nodded along with the story; he understood all too well what it felt like to watch the person you loved most in all the world plummeting toward the earth and being unable to save them.

Steve’s Words had never turned grey.  He’d assumed it was an effect of the serum, that his enhanced… _everything_ … had just kept regenerating his Words.  It had been painful to look at them; perhaps the most poignant reminder that he was alive while his entire world and everyone in it was gone.  He’d felt as cold and hopeless as the Words on his arm; it was the first time in his life that he’d thought he deserved the Person with such awful words in their soul.

Until that horrible, terrible, _wonderful_ day when he’d stood on a bridge and ripped off the Winter Soldier’s mask, and learned the terrifying truth of Bucky’s fall off that thrice-damned train.  The instant he’d seen Bucky’s face, his beautiful blue-grey eyes that matched the Words hidden on Steve’s arm…  It had been a terrible miracle, and Steve had been determined to earn that miracle.

He’d gone chasing after Bucky the instant he was released from the hospital.  With Sam by his side and with the help of the file Natasha had gotten for him, he had followed Bucky around the world and back a few times over now.  They had fought HYDRA, had found the smoking remains of HYDRA bases, had occasionally found senior officers left alive who they’d sent to The Hague.  But they never caught a glimpse of Bucky himself.

Sam had finally convinced Steve that it was time to go home, to give Bucky a little space and see if he came to them.  Steve fucking hated the plan, honestly.  He had never given up on anything in his life; it felt like blasphemy to walk away from Bucky, _again_.  But even Steve couldn’t deny how tired he was.  They needed a break; they needed a safe place to sleep; they needed to decompress.  So they were going to hit this last base, and then they were going home for a while.

Really, Steve should have foreseen what ended up happening.

Their intel on this base in the ass-end of Poland had been incorrect.  It wasn’t a warehouse manned by a skeleton crew; it was a fully staffed training base.  Even Captain America can only do so much when he’s so severely outnumbered.

Of course, the odds didn’t account for a Russian Winter Wind to come sweeping through like an avenging fury.

Steve grinned like a maniac, tearing through opponents while men dropped dead as if by magic [or, more accurately, by a highly skilled sniper].  He fought like a man possessed; every dead HYDRA soldier was one step closer to Bucky.

Steve barely had time to snap his shield onto his back before he was being spun around and viciously shaken by an absolutely _furious_ cyborg assassin.

“What the flying _fuck_ did you think you were doing, Stevie?!  You fucking moron, you can’t just charge into a goddamn base, guns blazing with no fucking plan!  Have you not learned a goddamn thing in ninety years?!  Or are ya just fuckin’ suicidal, ya stupid mook, coz I _know_ I taught you better’n this-”

Steve didn’t stop to think; he just grabbed Bucky by the back of his neck and smashed their mouths together.  Bucky stiffened in shock and for a long minute he didn’t move, but before Steve could pull away Bucky surged forward, yanking Steve impossibly close as they devoured each other.

“Missed you too, Buck,” Steve grinned against Bucky’s mouth before his tongue became otherwise occupied.

All in all, Steve thought, the kiss was worth the wait.

But of course it would have been worth the wait.  Bucky was his Person; he was worth anything and everything.

Unnoticed in the background, Sam shook his head in disgust at the pair of them, before reaching into his tac belt for his phone.

“Nat?  Yeah, it’s me.  Change of plans.  How quick can you arrange transport for me?  I ain’t gonna be anywhere near this mess of super soldiers making out…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a while, the working title for this chapter was “What Is Consistent Writing Tense?” Also, it took a good two weeks longer than I had planned to massage the original idea [which was just the concept of Bucky’s Words looking like a block of ice on Steve’s skin] into a coherent, workable fic. That was frustrating.
> 
> I guess I’ve firmly cemented the headcanon that Steve and Bucky each realized they loved the other while sitting on the rooftop watching fireworks for Steve’s birthday. I don’t know why I find that image so beautiful, but I really really do.


	10. Notorious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes have a rather Notorious friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one’s for Horrific Enabler Beta, my Satan Sam. After the heaviness and angst of the last flash fic, let’s try for something a little fluffier, shall we?

 

1938.

It began, as so many things did, with Bucky.

When George and Winnifred emigrated from the Old Country, they changed their names and their language, but not their religion.  Despite the urgings of their new neighbors to complete their Americanization, George Barnes always quietly but firmly stated that leopards cannot change their spots, and Jews cannot stop being Jews.  And so every week, George, Winnifred, and their children would dutifully make their way to the synagogue to honor the Lord God of their ancestors.

The mamas were quick to notice how good “that nice Barnes boy” was with children.  In no time at all, young James was the most sought-after babysitter in the Temple.  So when Winnie became fast friends with a fellow immigrant, Celia Bader, it was natural that Winnie should offer her eldest’s services when Celia needed someone to look after her five-year-old unholy terror Kiki.   As patient and good-natured as twenty one year old James was, surely he could handle the fierce, tiny little tomboy.

[Bucky never told anyone, but Kiki – who only he was allowed to call Little Miss Ruthie – was his favorite charge.  He always did have a soft spot for tiny, scrappy troublemakers, alright?]

* * *

1940.

In their entire lives, Steve and Bucky only fought over the affections of a girl once.

Steve hadn’t been looking for trouble for once, honest.  The alley was the quickest way from Mrs. Donovan’s apartment [he was giving her painting lessons in exchange for a half dozen eggs, a loaf of bread and some tomatoes from her rooftop garden once a week] to the diner where he and Bucky liked to meet up after Bucky’s shift at the docks.  Steve had been minding his own business; it wasn’t his fault he’d stumbled upon four teenage hoodlums menacing a seven-year-old girl and the poor mutt she’d been trying to defend.

And, well… Steve never could let an injustice stand.

They’d driven the bullies off without much fuss, and Steve had taken the conquering heroine for a celebratory malt.

By the time Bucky arrived, he’d very nearly been eclipsed in Little Miss Ruthie’s affections.  And, well, Bucky wasn’t about to let his best gal go without a fight, not even to you, Stevie.

In later years, the story about how Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes nearly came to blows over who got to escort her home was one of Ruth’s favorites.

* * *

1944.

Ruth was there when the dreaded notification came.

Winnie and Celia’s friendship remained steadfast, bound by jazz and crochet and rugelach recipes after Bucky traded babysitting children for commanding soldiers.  The Baders began coming to the Barnes’ home for weekly Shabbat; any excuse to let their daughters run wild while they relaxed together.

The families had been together last time, too, and Ruth watched in horror as the script played out once again, exactly as it did in her nightmares.  As George opened the door to face two soldiers in dress uniform.  As the senior officer stepped forward and said _We regret to inform you…_   As Winnie collapsed in sobs onto Celia’s shoulder.  As George aged a decade in seconds, as he walked to the window and flipped Steve’s star.  Gold, now, like Bucky’s.  As Becca, blinking back tears, hugged the younger girls and whispered over and over and over again.  _Baruch dayan emet_.

When Bucky died, she stopped going by Kiki; adopted instead _his_ name for her.

When Steve died, she stopped saying she’d grow up to be a teacher.  Now, she’d be a fighter.  She would fight the injustices and right the wrongs they didn’t live to correct.

* * *

2010.

The Smithsonian exhibit was very beautifully done; very tasteful.  Personal artifacts and grainy newsreels, complete with insightful commentary and historical context.  A fitting tribute to an American Icon.

Ruth hated it. 

This nonsense was propaganda to an empty idol; it had nothing to do with the two boys from Brooklyn she had idolized.

She stared up at the memorial plinth, tried to fit her memories of a laughing, loving boy to the solemn picture before her.

“So this is Bucky Barnes,” her son mused, tilting his head.  
Ruth nodded.  “I named you for him, you know,” she reminded him.  “For them both.”  
James Steven Ginsburg smiled faintly.  “Tell me more about them.”

And she did.

She talked about chocolate malts and clandestine gelt, about Steve’s reedy tenor trying to keep pitch with Bucky’s beautiful baritone as he struggled to wrap his tongue around Hebrew.  She talked about back-alley scraps and trips to the park and how riding on Bucky’s shoulders felt like flying.  Stories James grew up hearing and things he had never known about the men he was so very much akin to.

James was a more fitting tribute to her idols than this cold museum could ever be.

* * *

2013.

When the news broke that Captain Rogers had been found in the ice, risen from the dead to fight another day [and against _aliens_ , no less; wouldn’t Bucky have been thrilled], Ruth had to close her office door and sit for a little while.  It was an unfathomable miracle, and one for which she thanked the Lord God.  But in truth, she wasn’t really surprised.  Miracles had always followed Steve Rogers around.

When Steve moved to D.C. not long after the Battle of New York, Ruth knew exactly what to do.

Breezing past the flustered agent guarding the gate, she walked into the lion’s den, not stopping until she stood before the large glass-topped desk.

“Justice Ginsburg,” Director Fury greeted her after hanging up on the WSC.  “If this is about the Republicans-”  
“I seem to recall you owing me a favor, Nicky,” she interrupted.

It was good to have friends in high places.

Two weeks later, a photo appeared on twitter showing Captain America and Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, the biggest shit-eating grins on their faces as they drank enormous chocolate malts.

Hashtag Captain Justice surged in popularity.

[The picture of the two of them parasailing broke the internet.]

* * *

2018.

_United States v. Barnes_ was meant to be tried before the Supreme Court.  Because of Sergeant Barnes’ international criminal activities for Hydra, it was decided that he would be tried in the International Criminal Court at The Hague.

Steve was furious that his best friend – a POW and war hero – was being prosecuted as a criminal.  Ruth was just grateful that she hadn’t needed to recuse herself, and that she was free to sit at Steve’s side the entire time, gripping his hand and lending him the strength he and Bucky had taught her.

Every charged laid on Bucky’s shoulders was another bruise on Ruth’s heart.  Assassinations, espionage, treason, crimes against humanity, war crimes; America seemed determined to blame every ill of the last seven decades on him.  Not for the first time, she cursed how much influence the US held over the UN.

When the ruling came down – _innocent on all counts_ – Ruth joined Steve in grateful tears and a fierce three-way hug. 

“Thank you,” Bucky whispered to them both, over and over again.  
“You owe me a chocolate malt, Barnes,” Ruth replied.  “You’ve kept me waiting seventy years and I intend to collect, damnit.”  
He grinned.  “Yes, Ruthie.”

* * *

2020.

“Wouldja quit your fidgeting?  Get a grip, Rogers,” Sam berated him.  
“Sorry!” Steve said, yanking his hand away from his perfectly positioned tie.  “Just… nervous.”  
“Are you kidding me?” Sam asked, unimpressed.  “You fight aliens and jump out of airplanes without a damn chute, and _this_ makes you nervous?”  
“Of course it does,” Ruth smirked.  “He’s always been terrible at romance.”  
“Gee, thanks Ruthie,” Steve mumbled under Sam’s cackle, but her teasing did relax him.

Until the door opened to reveal Bucky on Natasha’s arm.

“Jesus Roosevelt Christ,” he whispered.  
Ruth reached up to swat his ear.  “Language!” she chided, before softening.  “He always has looked marvelous in a suit.”

Steve nodded, unable to form words as Natasha delivered his groom to him.  Bucky looked confident, but the whirring and shifting of his metal arm belied his own nerves.

“Take hands, you two,” Ruth commanded, picking up a Bible.  “Let’s do this proper.”

The ceremony was short and sweet, a combination of civil vows and Jewish prayer.  Unconventional, and utterly perfect.  There was no better benediction than to hear Little Miss Ruthie tell them, “I declare you two mooks _finally_ married.  Now hurry up and kiss before I’m a great-grandmother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I was going to end this one-shot with Steve and Bucky arranging for their Darcy doll to meet her idol, and for Ruth to inspire Darcy to go back to law school. But after trying to write that drabble, I realized it really didn’t fit what I was trying to do here. So imagine that happens offscreen somewhere.


	11. Legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes a Legacy to know a Legacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no fucking idea, y'all. I’ve had a super shitty mental health week, and this is the ridiculousness I needed.

There’s a reason Philip J. Coulson is so obsessed with Captain America, and the memorabilia of Cap and his Howlies.

Biology, as they say, will out.

Tony was the first to notice – of course, of _course_ he was [Pepper kind of wishes Tony would just give in and accept that honorary genetics doctorate from Harvard already].  It takes a Legacy to know a Legacy, after all, and for all that Tony’s tried to distance himself from the clusterfuck of expectations and disappointments wrapped up with his father and the Captain America _Thing_ , he is still a member of the Howlies’ extended family.  And while yes, typically Tony preferred to distance himself from anything that would link him to Howard – unless of course he was showing his old man up – even he couldn’t deny that a whole lot of his personality was nature, not nurture.  It stood to reason that this axiom would be true for others.

And it wasn’t just the eyes [old, old eyes in a young face], and it wasn’t in the way they each set their shoulders [genetic predisposition to scoliosis].  What tipped Tony off was the affable charm, the sincere engagement with other people that made you feel like you were the most important person in the whole world.  That kind of pure _goodness_ couldn’t be taught; it was an inherent quality that precious few people had.

Granted, the whole concept of Steve Rogers fathering a child was utterly ridiculous.  It was _Steve_ ; stalwart, honorable, upstanding Steven Grant Rogers would never leave a lady in the family way and abandon her.  Hell, Tony was more than halfway convinced that Capsicle couldn’t even get it up unless he had a ring on the lady’s finger [at least, that’s what he was telling himself for his peace of mind so he didn’t have to think about what Steve got up to with Bucky and Darcy.  Because, Captain America or not, no one but no one was good enough for Tony’s Baby Bot.].

And anyways, Steve had gone into the ice a full two decades before Agent was born.

Tony did so love a good puzzle.

Besides, the progeny hadn’t had a good and proper challenge in a while.  Darcy loved bio-engineering almost as much as Tony loved his suits, so this was right up her alley.  Vision, still so fascinated by all things organic, would thoroughly enjoy the chance to expand his practical knowledge.  And Harley… well, Harley just plain liked to tinker, and he got bored when he didn’t have school to distract him [Harley bored tended to end in a _lot_ of explosions.  Tony was very proud.].  This would be good family bonding time.  And hey, genetics research meant a lower probability of explosions, so maybe they could avoid Pepper making The Face.  That’d be good; Tony preferred to be unsinged if at all possible.

Under Vision’s direction, FRIDAY worked her way through the cache of SHIELDRA files JARVIS had pulled from Natasha’s info dump a few years back, while Tony and Harley hacked some “secure” servers.  Darcy, using her position as Assistant Liaison between the Avengers and SHIELD, made her way to the SSR’s hard copy archives, where the answer lay.

God-fucking-damnit, Howard.

After the success of Project Rebirth, Steve had undergone extensive medical testing to determine just how deep the rabbit hole of genetic enhancement went.  Was it possible, for instance, that the serum could be passed down to biological descendants?  Steve had, to quote Darcy, “proved once and for all that he is and has always been a textbook Slytherin seriously how can you people even question this” and gotten himself into active duty before the full battery of tests could be completed, so the question had never been definitively solved.  By the time anyone thought to revive the tests…  Well.  Steve had become a Capsicle in the Arctic, and there wasn’t much use in questioning anymore.

Until, apparently, Howard [Fucking] Stark happened.

Tony had grown up with the burden of knowing that he was not his father’s greatest creation; Captain America was.  The man had invested millions of dollars in the development of Project Rebirth, had personally funded a large percent of the cost of operations for SSR SpecOps Team Alpha [as the Howlies were officially known], and then spent a small fortune trying to bring his obsession home before spending a somewhat larger fortune trying to drink away his failures.  And somewhere in that period before Howard had entirely given up hope, but after he’d lost himself to despair and regret, he had gotten his hands on a few of Steve’s… ahem… samples.

The fact that Phil Coulson was a test tube baby had been buried as far and as deep as Howard could possibly ensure.  Had she known what he was up to, Peggy would have shot him, and Howard had a healthy respect for a furious Pegs.  Still, what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt him…  After all, Peggy had provided the SSR with samples, too.  There had been many genetic experiments on both sides of the Iron Curtain before, during and after the war.  Peggy had been considered for some of them, until she became too valuable an asset to the SSR.  But her paperwork and samples had all been preserved, and Howard didn’t believe in waste.

Howard had picked the surrogate parents carefully.  Steve and Peggy were his dearest and closest friends, after all; he’d do right by their child [aside from, y’know, the deeply unethical procedures that led to the kid’s existence in the first place].  He’d found Robert and Julie Coulson – good, decent people who desperately wanted a child but couldn’t conceive.  Howard had provided for the kid and his new family through a series of shell corporations.  The little boy would want for nothing, in exchange for the parents allowing discrete, periodic testing of their son’s genetic tissue and abilities.

He was named Philip, in honor of the good Colonel.  Middle name James, of course, to keep Steve’s ghost quiet.

As it turned out, the serum had become badly decayed by the time Phil was born.  Degraded by time, by inadequate storage procedures, and perhaps by the ghost of Steve coming back to righteously disapprove of what Howard had done.  Deteriorated as it was, the serum hadn’t granted Phil super strength or enhanced metabolism or delayed aging, or any of his father’s super soldier abilities.  But the genetic conditions he should have developed – color blindness, partial deafness, asthma, scoliosis, effectively nonexistent immune system – Phil was mercifully spared all of that.  Perhaps because of adequate care and better nutrition and not being raised in abject poverty.  Perhaps not.

Phil was not a genius student, but he excelled in all manner of tactical thinking.  He was king of all playground games – you did not go against Phil Coulson in capture the flag.  And good goddamn but did the boy ever inherit his father’s sense of moral justice.  Of everything that could have passed from father to son, Howard was pretty sure he was most happy about that.  That there would be at least one man with an unshakeable sense of moral rightness, of decency and compassion…  If that was the only legacy of Steve Rogers to survive the wreck of the Valkyrie, Howard was content.

* * *

Tony was being _weird_.

Now granted, Tony was always weird – the price of genius, or whatever the fuck Darce called it.  But still.  Tony was acting oddly even for Tony, and it was setting Bucky on edge.  And as everyone knows, it is a bad, _bad_ idea for Bucky to be on edge.

He kept to himself more than usual, holing himself away in his workshop with his sons [and his daughter, when she wasn’t busy shadowing her ma around SI].  And when he was around, he would just… _stare_ at Steve.  Now, according to Steve this was nothin’ new; apparently he was still House Stark’s favorite science project.  [Note to self:  Have a chat with Tony about that whole “everything special about you came out of a bottle” conversation.]  But this was different.  Tony had the look of a man who had something to say, but couldn’t find the words.  Given that this was Tony Stark, the fact that he had no words was fuckin’ concerning.

But hand to God, Bucky hadn’t intended to worry about it.  Darcy had assured both him and Steve that nothing was wrong, that Tony was just stuck on a Science! problem and was being a pissbaby about it.  But then Tony’s weirdness started rubbing off on Darcy.  Bucky hated it when their best girl was tense and upset.  [Not that he objected to her using them to work out a little tension, o’course.  Just…  He hated seeing their girl so damn twitchy, and having no idea how to _fix it_.]

So, yeah.  Once Darcy was involved, Bucky couldn’t stay quiet anymore.

“Jesus, Stark.  If you wanna confess your undying love to Steve, just get it fuckin’ over with already.”

Okay, maybe blurting that out in the middle of a family dinner wasn’t his smoothest move.  Still.  No time like the present.  And Tony’s gaping fish impersonation?  Fuckin’ priceless.  Almost as funny as the Confused Eyebrow Furrow of Patriotism coming from Captain Stars n’ Stripes.

“What?!” Tony spluttered, choking on his 18-year-old scotch as Pepper patted his back.  “Not that I don’t swing that way, because I could be persuaded, but that would be some weird Daddy issue shit that I would much rather ignore.”

After a belated beat in which Darcy indulged in a royal facepalm and Harley made exaggerated gagging noises while Vision looked politely confused, Tony turned to Pepper.

“Plus I am a happily monogamous man and please don’t hurt me for that not being my first response but c’mon, you can’t blame me,” he babbled, wide-eyed.  “You’ve ogled his manboobs too.”  
“Appreciated, Tony,” Pepper replied smoothly with a twinkle in her eye as she reached for her glass of Sauvignon Blanc.  “I have _appreciated_ Steve’s manboobs.  _You_ have ogled.”

Tony shrugged, unable to defend himself, before turning to Steve.  He drew a deep breath, squaring his shoulders as his eyes got uncharacteristically solemn.  Beside him, Darcy cursed under her breath, and he could practically _hear_ her muscles clenching in tension and aw hell, this wasn’t gonna be good, was it?  Amusement aside, Bucky was really startin’ to regret bringing this up.

“What do you know about the tests the SSR conducted on you?”

* * *

Forty-five minutes later found Steve on the balcony of Tony and Pepper’s penthouse, furiously smoking.  Not a habit he regularly indulged in – turns out, cigarettes really don’t help with asthma, and the nicotine had no effect on him.  But this seemed like a situation that called for a cigarette.  And a stiff drink.

Holy fuck, a child.  A _son_.  His son…  _Peggy’s son_.

What the flying _fuck_ had Howard been thinking?  This was…  This was about six different shades of fucked up, is what this was.

Tony and Darcy had promised that Agent- that _Phil_ didn’t know.  That he’d never had contact with Howard, and that SHIELD had never said a word.  Then again, the fact that SHIELD had brought Phil into the fold in the first place told Steve everything he needed to know.

Christ, his _son_.  He was twenty-eight years old, and he had a fifty-two year old son.  Whose biological mother had just died eighteen months ago.

What the fuck did he do now?  What was he supposed to do?  _Should_ he do anything?  Phil had had a good family, a loving home; and he was a grown-ass man.  He didn’t need a father, let alone a father who was technically young enough to be his son.  Sure, they were colleagues, and sort of friends…  But could they be a family?  Was that even something either of them would want?

What the fuck happened now?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no plans to actually write anything further for this story prompt. But in my head, there is much awkwardness all around for a while, until Darcy knocks heads together [she ain't got time for your emotional constipation, Bossman. She puts up with enough of that shit at home.]. Phil and Steve bond over stories of Peggy. Tony makes uncomfortable father and son jokes until Pepper hauls him off by the ear. Harley continues blowing things up [mostly by accident. Probably.].


	12. Expansion on a Theme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scenario that prompted Darcy to call Tony "Daddy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Littlelostgirl88 made a comment on this compilation a couple of months back, asking what scenario would prompt Darcy to call Tony “Daddy” [see ch. 6 – The Code of House Stark]. I answered with a flash fic down in the comment section, but… well, I really enjoyed writing that flash fic. So here, y’all. Have a thing. [[Be forewarned that because it's written in my rambly, half-explanatory headcanon style, tense does not exist and the narrative bounces all over the fucking place.]]

 

After the Dark Elves happened, Darcy started having problems with panic attacks and night terrors. One night in particular, still not fully awake from the night terror, she launched out of bed, curled into a tiny ball in the corner of her closet, and rocked herself back and forth, trying to suppress her sobs [because she'd just gotten Jane to sleep a couple of hours ago and Janey is a super light sleeper and no _way_ is Darcy attempting to wrangle her to bed twice in one night] as she whisper-chanted for her daddy to come save her over and over again.

JARVIS heard this, because of course JARVIS installed himself on all his sister's electronic devices. JARVIS relayed the information to Tony and Pepper. Tony and Pepper were in a 9 a.m. conference call with the Department of Defense regarding some medical tech SI had been developing. The second JARVIS' specialized "Darcy is in trouble" alert chimed [Smash Mouth's cover of _I'm a Believer_... it's a whole Thing, please don't ask], Tony leaped up and _ran_ out of the room. Pepper was only fifteen seconds behind him, after rescheduling the phone call for next week. Ten minutes later, Tony was in the suit and taking off across the Atlantic [a plane would take too long], and Pepper was in the penthouse, placing a call to SI London ["No, I don't care that it's 2 a.m. you listen to me you are going to have a jet organized for a 10 a.m. departure and a moving crew sent to this address and if you don't give me a call at 10:01 to inform me the plane is in the air I will not only fire you but I will ensure not even a McDonald's will give you a job, _do you understand me_."].

Darcy was doing a pretty good job of holding herself together as she shuffled into the kitchen to start the coffee... only to see her lunatic father, in a slightly rumpled three-piece suit, pouring her favorite coffee blend into her bowl-sized mug. She may have tacklehugged him. [She was not crying and you cannot make her admit it.] By the time Thor and Jane were up, Darcy was too busy bossing around the moving crew to explain to Jane why Tony Fucking Stark was in their living room. Jane was very confused, but, well... the words "unlimited funding" and "complete control" are potent ones. Especially when coming from someone as generous with his grant dollars as Tony [Fucking] Stark.

Darcy was too wired to sleep on the plane. And of course as soon as they were safely in the Tower, Jane wanted to start setting up her equipment and, well, calibrating the finicky machines had always been a particular specialty of Darcy's. And even after Jane called it a night, there were a few things Darcy wanted to unpack [notes, output charts, readings from two years ago, a two-week backlog of Jane’s indecipherable Post-It scribbles] and get uploaded onto JARVIS' servers, now that she had easy access to them again. And by the time she got done with that, there really wasn't much point in sleeping before Jane was up and at 'em, so she may as well just spend the rest of the night tinkering in her lab.

Darcy went three days without sleep before Pepper managed to slip a melatonin pill into her umpteenth coffee [like father, like daughter]. Cue another night terror. Jane was awake for this one and was freaking out because she had no idea how to snap Darcy out of it - and horrified, because she'd never realized how poorly Darcy had been coping. Nobody is exactly sure how Tony got down two flights of stairs so fast, but he was in Darcy's room almost as soon as she started screaming and was rocking his Baby Bot back and forth, reciting elements on the periodic table until she calmed down [coz that's how he used to handle it when baby!Darcy would scream her head off in the middle of the night]. This is how Jane discovers who Darcy's father is.

"You've been holding out on me."  
"Not really? I mean, yeah okay, I could've mentioned the parent thing, but then you'd have had to sign a shit ton of NDA's and I figured after SHIELD-"  
"Shut up and look over these equations. You're helping me with the math."  
"Goddamnit. But Jaaaaane, I don't like math! This is why I do soft science!"

 


	13. Don't Stop Me Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anybody who listens to that much Queen and Bowie can't be all bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been forever since I’ve felt even the slightest urge to write anything. I feel super rusty. But I woke up yesterday with this little half-formed almost-drabble in my head, so. Here. Enjoy!

 

Somewhere in the course of canon before I started losing interest in remaining canon-compliant [soooo, somewhere around Cap 2: I WAS NOT PREPARED], Odin banished Loki to Midgard to atone for his many and varied sins.  Sans magic, of course, because the tropes must be respected.  Naturally, the Avengers became Loki’s jailers/babysitters.  Naturally, nobody involved was very happy about this with the possible exception of Thor the Eternal Optimist.

_Somehow_ (stupid Thor and his stupid damn puppy dog eyes), Darcy gets roped into giving Loki her patent-pending Introduction to the 21 st Century:  Pop Culture Edition class.  No seriously, Tony applied for the patents as one of her birthday presents.  He was stupid proud that she named the course “Welcome to Earth!” in her best Will Smith impression.

Tony has a general – and, he feels, a very well-founded – dislike of strangers puttering through his R&D labs.  Particularly when said strangers are self-destructive megalomaniacal geniuses with enormous chips on their shoulders (this tower’s only got enough room for one of those, Reindeer Games, and Tony was here first).  But Tony also has an ironclad (ha) rule about giving people with exceptional taste in music a fair shake and a long leash.  And anybody who listens to _that much_ Queen and Bowie can’t be all bad.

Although…

“I know what you’re doing, spawn.”  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, old man.”  
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed that every time you want to butter me up to like your latest sad pathetic misfit stray mutt, you get ‘em hooked on the good tunes.”  
“Can’t prove it.”  
“Murder Strut.”  
“Discovered AC/DC on his own, thank you very much.  I merely encouraged.”  
“Captain Spangles.”  
“I am honestly as surprised as you are.”  
“Abominable Snowman.”  
“The internet declared _Don’t Stop Me Now_ his theme song long before I thought of it.  Which, come to think about it, I am disappointed in myself for not seeing that sooner.”  
“You’ve been taking lessons from your mother again.”  
“You did say we needed a girl’s day.”  
“No.  No, what I said was that I needed you to distract her so I could get the flowers air-lifted in.”  
“As I said.”  
“Stop being so smart.”  
“Baby, I was born this way.”  
“Give yourself another bonus.”  
“Already done, and donated to Lewis' Island of Misfit Toys.”

(Pepper just high-fives Darcy as she sashays out of the workshop.  That’s _her_ daughter, thank you very much Tony.)


	14. I've Put a Spell on You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Darcy is ensorcelled [shut up, it is totally a word] and Tony learns more than he needed to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still haven't been feeling all that inspired to write anything new lately. But post an old drabble? Yeah, that I can do. Be ye notified that this chapter references the events of ch. 12, Expansions on a Theme. It's not necessary to read that chapter to understand what's going on here. Enjoy!

 

The glare Tony Stark was leveling on Stephen Strange was honestly impressive, and kind of terrifying.  Steve felt a moment of remorse that he'd allowed himself to forget that Tony, too, was a superhero; maybe not a soldier, but he was a fighter too, and when his protective instincts were up he could be ferocious.

"Look, I'm working on it!" Strange snapped, flipping through his obnoxiously large tome and shooting not-so-covert worried glances over at Darcy.  “It’s not like these things come with a cross-referenced index.”

"Work faster," Tony growled, his voice positively glacial as he hovered, close enough to grab his daughter at a moment's notice should she trip over anything in the workshop or start convulsing.  Again.

Strange had been experimenting with a new book of spells from the Ancient One's private library.  His hand had twitched the wrong way at the wrong point of the spell, and the spell had ricocheted away from him, hitting Darcy square in the chest.

Aside from her eyes, glazed over with a green sheen, she appeared unharmed.  But she was trapped in the effects of the spell, the purpose of which was to relive one's most important memories.  For good and for ill.  Darcy moved and talked with semi-opaque shadows that the others couldn't quite make out the details of, insensible to where she was or who was physically present.

Tony, Pepper, Jane and Rhodey had been taking it in turns to watch over Darcy for the last several hours while Strange tried to undo the spell.  Darcy seemed to be moving back and forth through time without rhyme or reason, and for the most part they'd been able to extrapolate what memories she was seeing.

Her earliest [shockingly adorable] memories, of toddling after Tony in the shop and playing with her robotic brothers...  trailing after Jane and covertly forcing her to eat and take care of herself...  Walking across the stage at her graduation, running from the Destroyer, running in gym class and getting teased for her – ahem, assets...

The helpless, infuriated look on Tony's face when he watched his Baby Bot rocking on the ground, reliving a panic attack after London and quietly keening for her daddy... that had been rough.

It wasn't any easier watching Tony’s confusion, upset, indignation, and wariness as they watched Darcy throw her head back and laugh, making grabby hands at a shadow whose features they couldn't make out.

"Shut up and dance with me, Barnes!"

Tony's jaw twitched.  "How long has that been a thing," he asked through clenched teeth, his hands tightening into fists.

Steve shook his head, mystified.  As far as he knew, Buck- James hadn't left the Tower once since his arrival.  He hadn't even known that James _knew_ Darcy, let alone danced with her.

Both Tony and Steve booked it out of the lab when Darcy's laughs changed to moans, and a shaky exhalation of James' name.  Nope nope nope nobody needed to see that and ohhhhh shit Tony was gonna kill Bucky for this, wasn't he.

Steve sighed.  He was pretty sure this wasn't how Lewis would've wanted her father to find out who she was dating.


End file.
